A small village called Long Phu II was the base of India Company’s operations for a short time. The monsoons were ending; we were recovering from Operation Hastings, getting replacements, rebuilding and training. We conducted limited patrols, and at the same time we were stretched thinner than Saran wrap over a bowl of three-fart beans.                                                      

One day, while in the village proper a collection of thatched-roofed, bamboo huts which had a barber shop, a shop which also sold kerosene and lamps, and another place which sold mirrors made out of hammered out discarded beer cans we came upon a bunch of kids playing some sort of “kick-ball” or soccer game in the street.  Naturally, the Marines began playing ball with the kids just as any G.I. ever did in any war any G.I. has ever been involved in.
    
After the game, one of the boys braved breaking away from his group. This was very brave of him because later he could have been reported to the local Viet Cong as an informant.

He came up to a group of us and, though he struggled with his English, said, “Someday, I go to America. Become American.”
    
“Good luck, kid.” some of us said.
    
“Hey, G. I.  Where you from?” he asked the Marine on my left. The Marine replied. His hometown brought no reaction from this young Vietnamese.

“Where you from?’ he asked the Marine on my right. The second Marine replied with his hometown and state. The kid was not impressed.
    
Finally, the kid looked up at me and asked the same question. I looked down at him and only said, “Chicago”. Ten thousand miles from home and several time zones removed, I had not thought of Chicago for a long time. I guess this kid thought about Chicago for a few seconds also. He put his head down, kicked at the dirt, and was obviously in serious thought. Here was a twelve or thirteen-year old kid who was thinking about a town on the other side of the planet.
    
The kid looked back up at me with a huge smile on his face. He assumed a firing position, as if holding a machine gun. Then he excitedly exclaimed, “SHEE-CAW-GO!!! BAM!  BAM! BAM!  AL CAPONE!”
    
Halfway around the world, Chicago’s reputation had preceded me. I don’t know how he ever learned about my hometown, but that kid made me proud to be a Chicagoan!
    
I hope that kid made it to the States. He’s probably a good American. Or, a great gangster.

Author/Jerry Czarnowski    

We had been out on Operation Deck House II for about three weeks.  India was moving from the open rice fields, from paddy dike to paddy dike, then up into the jungle.  The Infantry guys were hacking away at razor-sharp elephant grass, which cut at our arms and tore our fatigues to shreds.
          
We were making our way up a steep hill, every other step slipping on the damp underbrush. That’s when THE MESSAGE came in.
        
Battalion called out with a “Net Call”, one that covered all companies.  “Connive.  Connive.  This is Connive 6, over.”

As trained, I responded first:  “This is Connive India.  Over.”  Then the Admin/Log (Administrative/Logistics” radio operators responded in letter order from the other companies. – Kilo, Lima and Mike.  Headquarters didn’t have to respond because it was “Connive 6”.
            
“Connive. MESSAGE. Over.” This was an instruction to get our little Marine Corps Message Books out and prepare to write down an important message. Normally, I could call Battalion and tell them I was not prepared to copy, or, in other words, write the message down, but just report the gist of it to my Officer. But, then came the next word.
          
“FLASH.”

Holy shit!

A “FLASH” message.
          
Now, you have to understand that in the military, and even in civilian communications,
There are four levels of importance of a message:  “ROUTINE” is the lowest; “PRIORITY” is something to think about; “IMMEDIATE” is very important, and “FLASH” means you’re about to get your ass kicked.
          
What the hell?  Were we about to be overrun?  The gooks about to drop a nuke?  I dropped to my knees, got out my message book and pen and awaited the message.  The other guys were telling – no, they were yelling – for me to get up and move on.  But, I couldn’t move, write and fight the elephant grass and the hill at the same time.
        
So, I just stopped.  Then, I listened through all the administrative bull, the “From” through the “To”, the Date-Time Group and the message’s classification – “FLASH”.

Hell.  I was about to die, and this clown at Battalion was just stretching things out.  I wanted him to get to the point.
          
The text came through, and I wrote it down.  It went something like, “Be advised.  Operation Deck House II is now Operation Hastings.”  I looked at what I had written down and couldn’t believe it. It was like that kid in the movie, “A Christmas Story” who decoded the Ovaltine message listening to Little Orphan Annie on the radio: “Drink More Ovaltine!”
        
I was dumbfounded.  I was really pissed off.  I wanted to get my hands on that Battalion geek and pummel his brains from his head down through his ass.
        
It was my job to acknowledge receipt of the message first, especially in a timely manner so that Kilo, Lima and Mike could respond in order.  And, boy, did I acknowledge it.  I called that Battalion bastard every name in the book and insulted his mother.  I also told him what we in India Company were up against. I let him know that any idiot who though about sending such a stupid message with a “FLASH” precedence ought to be force-fed his own cahoochies. I asked him who was the dumb ass that wrote this stupid message.
          
That’s when I got my answer. It was Connive 6 Actual.  The Battalion Commander.  Colonel Bronars.
          
He was very cool and polite. He told me to deliver the message.  And, when this operation was over, he would personally help me find a new line of work.
        
The moral of the story:  Don’t kill the messenger.

Author/Jerry Czarnowski    

India Company had suffered severely, yet endured on that hill, 362 on 24 July 1966.  It was the stuff Marine Corps legend was made of – the Company was ambushed, mortars rained in relentlessly, and an estimated battalion from the North Vietnamese Army’s 324th B Division probed our fractured perimeter.  Yet, India Company held on to Hill 362.

There was no dusk, or as I learned to call it, EENT (End of Evening Nautical Twilight).  The rugged hills and the jungle canopy mad daytime almost instantly melt into night. I had taken cover behind a log just outside of the Command Post.  It wasn’t much of a CP, just a big hole in the ground covered with two shelter-halves.  Inside were the Company Commander, Captain Glaize, First Sergeant Chapman and my boss, Sergeant Stan Zaidinski.  Stan called me into the hole.

Captain Glaize told me that what I was going to do was very important.  Then, the Top told me that I was not to tell any of the other Marines what I was up to.  I think that he and the CO thought someone would try to stop me.

Then, Glaize got very serious.  He told me that a helicopter was coming in. It was my job to guide it in. The chopper was to pinpoint our position and was going to drop something very important.  I was to recover the “drop” and bring it back to the CP.  

Okay.  I can do that. The only problem was that I had never brought in a  chopper before, let alone at night. I had been training to do it and had observed Sergeant Ski does it many times, but I had zero, zilch, and nada experience. But when the First Shirt and the CO tell a private to do something, he does it.  Hell, I didn’t even think twice about it.

I grabbed an M-14 and two flashlights and started working my way to the top of the hill.  There was a pile of tree trunks at the top which had been knocked down by all the mortar fire.  I figured this was as close to the top as I was going to get, so I settled down and found cover at the base of the logs.

I waited and waited. There was the occasional shout of “INCOMING”, and I buried myself under the fallen trees. The rounds would fall either harmlessly, amongst the dead or, sadly, into the area where our wounded were gathered for treatment. We were being probed by the NVA who shouted things like, “Marine! You die!” which only helped our guys figure out where they were and pick them off.

Then, I heard it. The old CH-34 was a piston-engine aircraft.  It made a sound like a Chrysler Hemi with straight-pipes, just as distinguishable as the Huey became to be known. I knew it was coming.

I climbed to what I thought was the top of the hill, over the dirt and on top of the logs.  I listened, and I waited. The noise grew louder, first a hum, then a sound like that of an approaching thunderstorm.

No aircraft lights were with the aircraft noise.  I raised both flashlights over my head, pushed them out as far as I could in front of my body and turned them on. Top Chapman was right – some guys wanted my ass right there and then. “What the fuck is that asshole doing?” “You stupid son of a bitch!  What the fuck are you doin’?” “Are you fuckin’ nuts?” A couple of Marines turned around and started to shuffle toward me.  Then, I heard someone yell, “Hey!  Leave him alone. He’s bringin’ in a chopper.”

I held those flashlights as high over my head as I could. Once I brought the lights in over the top of my head, I turned them off. Then, I would reach out again, turn on the lights and repeat bring them in. After about six or seven repetitions, the chopper was right overhead.

Most of my job was done.  I got to the top of the hill, didn’t tell anyone what I was doing, and, so far, hadn’t been shot by one of my fellow Marines. The next step was to collect the “drop”.  Hell!  I didn’t know what it was going to be, but I knew I had better not go back without it.

It wasn’t much different from that which had happened all day. A bunch of small arms fire and a machine gun opened up. The chopper veered off to its left and took off in the same direction in which it had approached.  It started to rain. But, it wasn’t rain. It was gasoline. The Gooks opened up and put a few rounds in the fuel tank, and we Marines were being sprayed with gas. Great! And, I still had not recovered the “drop”.

There wasn’t much left for me to do, except head on back down to the CP. When I got there, First Sergeant Chapman was already opening the contents of the “drop”.  It was a stinkin’, lousy ammo can.  1st Platoon recovered it and ruined me going four for four on my assignment. Chapman opened it and handed the contents to Captain Glaize.  There were some papers – I guess they were orders – and a bunch of maps.

Sergeant Ski told me to join one of the platoons.  At first, I took up a space in an eight-man hole with the 2nd Platoon until I gave it up for a wounded Marine. Then, I took up a position between the 2nd and 1st Platoons, dug a hole with my canteen cup and really pissed off the guys in the 1st Platoon by throwing an M-26 fragmentation grenade downhill and having it bounce back toward their lines.

I don’t think Sergeant Quick got his fellow Marines as mad at him as I did mine that night.  At least, they knew what the hell he was doing out there. But, Sergeant Quick didn’t serve with India Company. Very few people have had that honor.  
     
Oh. Who was Sergeant Quick?  I guess someone who was just as dumb as I was.
     
Author/Jerry Czarnowski

The “cat’s eyes” were closed and nothing was ringing on the double-stacked set of SB-22 switchboards.  There was no traffic on any net – Battalion, Company or Platoon.   There was nothing to keep me from leaning back in my wooden chair, draw heavily on my Camel non-filter cigarette, keep my right foot elevated on the desk, and
just basically ignore the war, the world and everybody in it.

The most exciting thing that happened was some stupid Intelligence Officer at Regimental decided to send out his own Recon Patrol without telling anybody else about it about two weeks prior to the day, and the bunch of Office Poagies ran into one of our routine patrols and all hell broke loose.  M-14’s, M-60 machine guns, 3.5 rocket launchers and M-79’s went off on the horizon for about twenty minutes.  Somebody called a “Cease Fire”, and that’s when we found out these clowns were from Regimental.  Amazingly, through all that shit flying back and forth, no one got killed, let alone hurt.

A couple of more minutes and I’d be done with my shift.  Then, it was off to my bunker along Artillery Road.  Captain Sims would be ending up his daily meeting, and Sergeant Zaidinski would take over at the radio shack after he got done cleaning his .45. BLAM!!!  Jesus H. Christ!  What the hell was that?  The rail of the chair below my crotch exploded, and the back of the chair blew out.  I ended up sprawled out on the floor on my stomach, looking over my left shoulder in absolute confusion.

There stood Sergeant Stan, pistol in the palm of his left hand and the most stupefied look on his face.  Just a glance over stood Captain Sims yelling, “What the fuck is going on here?”  

It didn’t take long to figure out.  Stan was cleaning his .45 and had chambered a round.  When he went to “clear” it, it went off.  Now, if Sergeant Ski had been on a pistol range and made that shot, he would have gotten an “Expert” badge.  As it was, he just ended up in a world of bad news.

Sims was so pissed off that he had to be restrained by the First Sergeant and a couple of Lieutenants.  That’s when he ordered my good Sergeant into his office for an Article 15, or what’s called and “NJP” – Non-Judicial Punishment.  Hell.  There wasn’t even any paperwork done.  It was like the old “Rocks and Shoals” of the Marine Corps disciplinary philosophy of WW1.  You know, Jimmy Cagney and Forrest Tucker in the
famous “What Price Glory?”

Stan walked into the Old Man’s office with three stripes up, and mournfully trudged out with only two.  He was now “Corporal Stanley Zaidinski”.  

I have had two experiences where Sergeants were busted.  One deserved it – he violated security rules and asked people to lie to cover his sorry ass.  He was busted, sent to Portsmouth for six months and given a Dishonorable Discharge.  The other was the infamous Corporal Grant who I knew at Charlie Company, 13th Motor Battalion, 5th Marine Division.  Grant had made Sergeant five times in his twenty years, only to make Corporal six.  And, he was damned proud of it.  

I couldn’t look Stan in the face.  We were both now Corporals, and, technically, I was senior to him.  Senior to what?  Senior to the guy who taught me everything?  Senior to the best radio-wireman in the Battalion?  Senior to a legend?      

I wanted to go find a hole and dig myself into it.  Everything that had happened was an accident.  Hell!  Shit happens.  I’d seen worse.  I went to the First Sergeant and quietly protested.  I told him a lot of guys were gonna be pissed off.  He told me not to worry about it and dismissed me.  I went to my bunker feeling lower than whale poop in the ocean, and that’s when you’re looking up at everything else.

The next morning, I did not want to go back to the Company Headquarters.  For all I cared, I would rather sit my tour out at that sand-bagged shit-hole of a shack the Corps described as a “fighting position”, but was nothing more than a floodable sinkhole we called a “bunker”.  But, duty called, and it was my turn for radio watch, so I showed up around noon, after chow.

There, in all his glory stood SERGEANT Stan Zaidinski, three stripes up and beaming. It didn’t take him half a breath to start jumping on my case about anything you name it.  But, whatever it was, it was great to have him back doing it again.

Seems Captain Sims had over-stepped his authority.  Only Battalion could promote Sergeants, and only Battalion could demote them.  And then, only after the Battalion Commander gave an Article 15 or referred the matter to a Court Martial. A little “behind-the-scenes” (some would say “back-stabbing”) maneuvering was done by the First Shirt to get the whole incident thrown overboard, and it worked.

My hero, my mentor, my teacher was saved.  He could live another day to try to blow my balls off.

Author/Jerry Czarnowski

     
     
     
     
     
     

In the early part of 1967, I was awarded a three-day, two-night “Mini R&R” to China Beach in Da Nang. I wasn’t the only one. Another guy was going along with me, and he had to be lucky. He was a PFC who had only been in country a couple of months.

The first day, we went through some processing and were taken to our barracks. It was a real building, with a ceiling, walls, floors, doors and windows. It had a head with flush toilets, sinks and showers with plenty of hot water. All we were asked to do was to keep the place clean which, to me, was reasonable.

I took a shower and put on a clean set of fatigues. I left the barracks and headed for the PX. The place was jammed. There were soldiers, sailors, Marines and airmen of every rank in there buying everything imaginable – cameras, record players, tape recorders, pop, beer, snacks – you name it, they had it available for those troops.

I went over to the USO. Maybe, I could catch a glimpse of a few round-eyed cuties. There was a display of the flags of all fifty States and U.S. Territories. I had my picture taken beside the Illinois flag, but I don’t know what happened to it.

On the way to and from the barracks to the PX and USO, I noticed a whole bunch of guys who must have had a lot of free time. They were playing basketball and volleyball on real basketball and volleyball courts. There were guys playing tennis on real tennis courts. Some guys were in swimsuits or shorts carrying towels on their way to the beach or to a swimming pool, which I was told had just been built. There were tons of GI’s every-where, and not one of ‘em was carrying a weapon.

For dinner, I went to the mess hall. As far as Mess Halls go, it was just like any other mess hall I ate at from Okinawa to Japan to Stateside. You picked up a tray, you had real silverware, paper napkins, and you went through a line. They had bowls for cereal, Jello or pudding, and there was a tray of cake and pie slices for dessert. Sure beat eating C-Rats heated by a heat-tab or C-4 and eating that crap with a dirty plastic spoon; or, if you lost your spoon, with your fingers.

That night, I slept in a real bunk with real sheets and a real blanket and a halfway decent down-pillow. Well, at least I slept soundly. I snore like there’s no tomorrow and had my bunk shaken a couple of times with guys telling me to roll over. It was okay because I slept in late; actually missed breakfast at that nice mess hall.

I was back in the barracks after lunch when a Sergeant walked in. As he walked down the center of the bay, he started picking out guys, in all about six or eight of us. I asked him why. He told us to report back at 1600 hours to go on bunker watch at the airstrip.

Well, hell, I wasn’t about to do that. So, I made myself scarce. Hung around the PX and the beach well into the night. Then, I went back to the barracks and got another good nights sleep.

After noon, this same sergeant showed up, but this time he had some firepower. An Army lieutenant was with him. I was pointed out, and the LT approached me. He told me that that night I would stand bunker-watch. I told him I had written orders from my Battalion. He told me that it was a direct order. I responded that he wasn’t in my chain-of-command. I told him to use his own people; he had plenty of them, and they weren’t doing anything at night. Hell, it didn’t seem like they were doing anything all day.

The lieutenant ordered me to report back to the barracks at 1600 hours once more. He and his pet terrier, the sergeant, left, but not before that little toady gave me an “I told you so!” look.

1600 came and went. I wasn’t around. I went to the PX and bought a couple of six-packs and some snacks and headed for the open-air theatre. It looked like a drive-in minus the cars. I was told that there were movies shown after dark, but not that night. So, I just hung around, drank my beer and ate my chips until the wee hours, watched the night sky and the shooting stars and went back to the barracks.

The next morning was pretty uneventful. Got up. Got cleaned up. Packed my sea-bag and waited for the word on where to find transportation back to India Company.

About mid-morning, the lieutenant and his lap-dog NCO showed up. He had an envelope for me and told me to deliver it to my Commanding Officer. “Yes, Sir”, I replied. He and Sergeant Pissant left. I threw the envelope on my bunk.

I didn’t bother to open the envelope. I knew what was inside. It was one of those “inter-office” envelopes that had the routing boxes on it and holes in it so you could see if anything was inside. It was pretty thick, so I figured there were a lot of copies.

I caught a deuce-and-a-half going down to Chu Lai. I had that envelope in my hands. I waited until we were south of Tam Ky on Highway 1 before I opened it. Sure enough, it was a UCMJ charge-sheet. It had several charges with a whole bunch of specifications very neatly and correctly typed – hell of a lot better than I could ever do.

It wasn’t much of a decision. I just tore it up and threw it off the back of the truck. The way I figured it, there wasn’t much of anything anybody else could have done to me that was worse than what I’d already been through from the day I was thrown off the side of a Mike boat on Deckhouse I.

When I got back to India Company, I resumed my duties at the radio shack and at my bunker. A couple of days after my return, Gunny West, our acting First Sergeant, asked me how R&R was. I told him it was fine, even bought a present for my Mom and sent it home. He asked me if I had anything for him, and I told him no. That wasn’t a lie. That envelope wasn’t for him, but for the C.O.

Within a couple of weeks, we were involved in the infamous “Rough Rider”. I was a real “short-timer” with a horrendously bad attitude. I never worried about the “other shoe dropping” because I never worried about the first shoe.

The first week of April, my tour was up. I came home on leave and never thought about China Beach, other than how pristine and beautiful it was. I was grateful for the R&R.

In the summer of ’69, I was at Marine Barracks, Clarksville Base in Tennessee. A story broke about the people who ran Special Services at Da Nang and at other places inViet Nam. It seems two Sergeants Major were indicted for running a big scam with the merchandise. Several Officers were implicated. These were the same clowns who ran the R&R program. It didn’t take much to figure out what else was probably going on. From top to bottom, these guys were probably protecting their turf and their little minions, including my accuser lieutenant and his pal, Sergeant Dukey.

What I did was wrong. But, what those clowns in Da Nang tried to pull on me was Worse. I’m not sorry for what I did.

Author/Jerry Czarnowski

Red Hill was India Company’s home for several months, from late 1966 into the spring of 1967. Actually, “Red Hill” was the biggest of several hills over which all of our Platoons and our Headquarters and attached units from Battalion were spread out. Nothing much ever happened there except the usual patrols, the occasional probing of our perimeter and the one time the106 Platoon from Headquarters Company lit up the night sky with a ground-level barrage of flachette rounds.

Big scuttlebutt came down through Sergeant Zaidinski that we were getting a new Commanding Officer, a guy from Battalion. He was supposed to be a real mean son of a bitch who was finally going to lay down the law and straighten out typical screw-ups like me. But, I think that report from the Sarge was fabricated solely for my benefit.

A few days passed, and nothing happened. It was business as usual with Gunny West, our Acting First Sergeant, literally running the Company. Our Officers were mostly Stateside replacements who couldn’t find their asses with both hands tied behind their backs. The experienced Lieutenants were willing to rely on the Gunny to keep things running smoothly.

Just the typical routine for me also – one night radio watch, one night at my bunker and, supposedly, one night off – usually spent either on radio watch or at my bunker. It seemed as though Sergeant Ski’s prophecy of impending doom for Sad Sacks like me was not to be fulfilled.

Three days after the Oracle Non Com Stan had made his dire prediction, it happened. As I made my way, mess kit in hand, toward the mess hall for breakfast, a “Mighty-mite” (a mini knock-off a ‘Jeep’) rolled up with a rather gung-ho looking, straight-laced, starched Marine Captain in the passenger seat. He stepped out of the vehicle, and he looked like his uniform was pressed on him, not one crease or fold evident.

I could not avoid him. I was between the Command Post and the road. So, I stood there and, as he walked by, I saluted him, almost with my hand that was holding my mess kit. The son of a bitch was huge. Geez, he had to be six foot six, about 240 pounds. Was this guy going to be our new CO? And, was he smart enough to put an end to all of my scams, like trading batteries for beer rations? Oh, yeah. The battery scam. Selling “C” cells to the grunts from discarded radio batteries.

What about my doctoring the duty schedule? Platoon Sergeants would tell me to put their screw-ups on extra duty and lose some records in return for some extra ammo and grenades. Not that I ever fell for such a scheme, but I was the best-armed Corporal in the Marine Corps at the time.

The Captain returned my half-assed salute and moved on to the Command Post tent. It was as if he hadn’t even noted my existence, which would have been fine by me. The lowest profile I could maintain was my best bet to survive the rest of my tour. Anyway, I had another priority. I made it a point to never miss a hot meal and real coffee, and the chow hall was closing down in about ten minutes.

When I returned to the CP, it was the usual routine. Put on the headset, monitor the radios and answer the two SB-22 switchboard telephone sets. Then, Sergeant Ski came out of the back of the tent, where the CO’s office was, and told me to take the rest of the afternoon and night off. But, the next morning, around zero-dark-thirty, I was to meet the new Skipper at the East Gate and be his radio operator on a reconnaissance patrol. And, I had best be looking extra sharp, according to Zaidinski. The new CO didn’t take any crap.

The rest of the afternoon was spent getting out my best set of fatigues, which had been starched at “Suzy’s”. Of course, all the laundries were named “Suzy’s” in ever G.I. or Marine town north of Chu Lai. Most of the “laundries” also doubled as whorehouses. I cleaned my M-14, checked my ammo load and seven magazines, and made sure I had the right grenades for the patrol – two smokes (one of which was always red) and two M-26 anti-personnel baseballs. It this had been a night patrol, I would have taken along a couple of “Willy Peters” (White Phosphorus or “WP” illumination grenades). I checked my radio and my spare battery. I went through my list of radio frequencies from each platoon up to Battalion. Later, I would write them and their corresponding call signs down on my left forearm with a ballpoint pen to have them readily available. I was all set up.

All this preparation was for a good reason. This was my first opportunity to be the radio operator for the Company Commander, “The Big Six”. I was going to be the guy who filtered messages to the CO. I would decide what priority would be assigned to incoming and outgoing messages. I would talk to Battalion. I would call in the artillery, the choppers and the air cover. I, I, ME, ME!!! This was my big chance!

It was quiet when I showed up at the East Gate early that morning, just your typical bunker-watch night. I looked like something out of the Marine Corps manual, totally starched, fully equipped and armed to the teeth. But, something was missing. Usually, when the CO went out on a mission, at least half the Company went with him. This time, there was no movement by anyone to line up to move out. “Okay.” I thought, “We’ll just team up with them later.”

There was just enough light to see this huge image moving toward me. When he got close, I saw the set of silver railroad tracks on his collar and saluted, reporting for duty. He looked at me, asked me if I was ready, and said, “O. K. Let’s go. ”Duh?  My head reeled. What the hell do you mean, “Let’s go?” My body scrunched up (if those words are a proper definition) into a half crouch. I looked up at the new Captain in dismay and asked, “Ain’t there somethin’ missin’ here, Sir?”

“Like what?” Sims replied.

“Like two fuckin’ platoons of Infantry and a couple of weapons squads!” The glare from the Captain’s eyes was unavoidable. The only thing to counter it was my disbelief that he and I were going out on a two-man patrol.

“We’re on a Recon, Corporal. You just follow me.”

“Sir. Yes, Sir.” And, with that, Captain Sims led me through the East Gate onto our two-man patrol. We crossed the “No Man’s Land”, the area in front of the bunkers, which had been cleared of any vegetation, and, as usual, headed north. We had been moving for over an hour when daylight finally broke, and I was able to turn on my radio. When I did, Zaidinski initially acknowledged me, but then when I started cussing him out in whispers so Sims wouldn’t hear me, Ski didn’t reply.

I wanted to keep in the tree line, but Sims kept us smack in the middle of dried-out rice paddies. We kept moving north with Sims making mental notes and me making futile radio calls back to the Company, either to threaten my good Sergeant or to tell him the new CO was absolutely fuckin’ nuts. About 1100 Hours (that’s an hour before lunch for those of you from Round Lake Beach, Illinois or for a White Sox fan), we came upon a village. We were off to the west of it and were on lower ground. The village was surrounded by a berm with a pointed bamboo fence atop it.

Just in front of us, directly to our north and just outside of the village fence was a huge mound. It had two entrances –one to our left, and one to our right. We had been noticed by some villagers. They began to gather along the fence to see what these two stupid Americans were up to.

Sims turned to me. “Give me your grenades”, he ordered.

“Huh? What for, Sir?”

“That’s an ammunition bunker, and we’re going to blow it up.”

“Uh. Sir. That’s where the villagers store their rice. Almost every village has one.”

“Corporal, just give me your grenades.”

Very reluctantly I untapped my M-26 baseballs and handed them over to the Captain. Seemed to me that this guy was hell-bent on getting the both of us killed. We were about 100 yards from the bunker, and more locals from the village were gathering along the fence. I kept one eye on them and my other eye on the new Skipper as he approached the bunker. Sims started at the door on the left. I watched him pull the pin and toss the grenade into the bunker. Then, he ran to the other door and threw in the second grenade. By this time, the locals must have realized what he was up to and were jumping up and down, yelling and waiving dangerous looking hand tools at us. Sims started racing back toward me, and I kept my weapon pointed at the locals. At the same time, I kept muttering over the radio that this asshole was trying to do his best to get us both killed.

The first grenade went off within a muted “puff”, probably shaking up a pile of rice bins. The second one went off with a bang; smoke billowing out of the opening. Then, all hell broke loose – a second explosion, the bunker started to cave in. Sims was still running toward me, and the gooks looked really pissed off. That son of a bitch could really run. As he leaped over the last paddy dike in front of me, he said, “Let’s get the hell out of here!” I didn’t need much convincing, and we must have run 400 or 500 yards before we took cover. Of course, he got there first because he wasn’t carrying any gear, and he wasn’t looking over his shoulder every ten feet to see what the locals were up to.

We regrouped behind a paddy dike and caught our breath. The villagers may have been upset at what Sims did, but there wasn’t too much they could do about it now. We were long gone out of their area, and for them to react and move out would have taken a couple of hours. “Oh!  Just a rice storage bunker, huh, Ski?” I had to admit that I was wrong. But, I did remind the Skipper that were about three to four hours out. He told me we would not go back the same way we came out, but that we would find another route. That was fine by me. Between us, we only had 140 rounds of M-14 ammo, one .45 pistol with three clips, two smoke grenades and a radio which Zaidinski refused to answer.

We got back before evening chow, but I wasn’t very hungry. Sims thanked me for a job well done, apparently forgetting about my early-morning insubordination. I was released and went looking for my nemesis, Sergeant Stanislaw Zaidinski. I had been had again, and I wasn’t going to take it anymore. True to his normal routine after putting one over on me, Stan was nowhere to be found. Then, after expecting a night off, I was intercepted by the First Shirt who sent me back to my bunker for another night’s watch.

In the military, there’s an old saying: “Don’t volunteer for nothin’” Well, hell, I didn’t volunteer for anything. I let my ego get so pumped up expecting to be the “Big 6’s” radioman that I fell, once more, into Zaidinski’s trap.

Author/Jerry Czarnowski